The Last Enemy
by halfeatenmoon
Summary: Torchwood crossover After defeating Grindlewald, Albus Dumbledore is smothered by attention and desperate for solitude. Wandering the streets of London one summer night, he comes across a very strange America who calls himself Captain Jack Harkness.
1. Chapter 1

Albus Dumbledore had not given much thought to what would happen if – or really, if he were honest with himself, when – he survived a confrontation with Gellert Grindlewald

Albus Dumbledore had not given much thought to what would happen if – or really, if he were honest with himself, _when_ – he survived a confrontation with Gellert Grindlewald. If he had, he probably would have expected something very similar to what actually happened. Mass celebrations by wizards throughout Europe; accolades for his 'skill' and 'bravery'; more requests to join the Ministry, which he would pleasantly decline. The strangest and yet least surprising part was the constant attention, congratulations and questions, and seeing his face on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ for weeks on end. Through it all he would smile and respond with kind words and grand speeches – at times descriptive, at others philosophical, but always grand. Playing his part as the man who was now without a doubt one of the greatest wizards who had ever lived.

Not that he minded that; whatever his initial misgivings, Albus had come to accept his place as a leader. But it was a strange and bittersweet experience all the same to say the things he did to the public at a time when what he really wanted was to be alone, to take the time to think and _feel_ all the things he couldn't talk about. Before the battle he had felt only guilt, and after the fact he felt little better. He had performed a legendary deed, saving countless people from Gellert's tyranny. Everything he said about Grindlewald and the duel was true; Albus never lied. But that act of virtue didn't ease the weight of all the things that went unsaid, and that no matter how many people he saved, he would always remember more clearly the ones he betrayed.

The guilt was something that he couldn't speak about. He would have anticipated that. Nobody was interested in it, so he kept it close, and secret. Guilt for the ones Gellert killed when Albus was still too scared to act, and for Ariana. Guilt, too, for Aberforth, who lived. There were times, wandering the castle at night in search of a toilet, when defeating the Dark Wizard Grindlewald felt like little more than the betrayal of yet another loved one.

The thing that Albus would have expected and looked forward to most of all, when he stood over Gellert – still beautiful even as he had aged, still brilliant, laughing up at Albus who stood victorious over him with the Elder Wand in his hand and wondered why it didn't feel like a victory - what he would have looked forward to the most was returning to Hogwarts and getting away from all the fuss. He particularly looked forward to the upcoming summer holidays and having plenty of time alone, left to his own guilt.

What he never would have expected was that he would end up spending the summer of 1946 in a London apartment with an American Muggle.

Albus first met Jack on the road outside the Leaky Cauldron. It was not a place that he visited often; London was a long way from Hogwarts, and he rarely had much cause to venture so far, especially with the Hog's Head or the Three Broomsticks just a short walk away. But it was the second week of the summer holidays and by now he had spent rather a long time holed up in the school; teaching, escaping from the world and, he had to admit, a lot of time moping about and punishing himself. When an owl arrived from good old Elphias Doge asking him to come to London for to 'catch up', it seemed a timely opportunity to stretch his legs a little.

Reunions with Elphias were always a little odd. Indeed, their friendship had always been a little odd in itself, as many people had been saying ever since their days at Hogwarts – why would a genius like Albus Dumbledore confide in a dimwit like Elphias Doge? In some ways, they were right. He _had _craved more intellectual company, and maybe that was even part of his disastrous relationship with Gellert Grindlewald. But his relationship with Elphias had never been insincere; most of Albus' happiest memories were of schooldays with Elphias, filled with fun and games and relaxing, simple pastimes when he didn't _have_ to think. There was probably nobody who was better at cheering Albus up, and making him forget. Yet now the trouble was just that – Elphias was too eager to forget, and to ignore that which made him uncomfortable. He hardly wanted to know about how guilty Albus felt about how he had dealt with Grindlewald; he thought only of the glory of the victory. He was no longer someone Albus could confide in, determined as he was to whitewash Albus' past into happy, innocent memories. Even Mrs. Doge was more interesting to talk to than her husband, but it seemed wrong for Albus to confide in her the things he couldn't say to Elphias. There had been enough awkwardness between the three of them already in those days spent lazing about and chatting over tea and scones, reminiscing about the old days while both men carefully avoided getting too close to one another lest they also remember their less innocent childhood pastimes, the hurried adolescent fumbling, snatched moments of intimacy in those stolen moments in hidden rooms or in the dormitory when everyone else was out at a Quidditch match.

In the end, they simply had nothing left to say to one another - or at the least, Albus had nothing to say that Elphias wanted to hear - and he found himself looking for excuses to return to Hogwarts before his stay was supposed to end. One muggy Wednesday evening he finally announced to Elphias that he must return to Hogwarts at once, and to his relief Elphias understood, or at least accepted it, immediately, with no further explanation required. So accepting, in fact, that Albus found his bags packed and on the doorstep within the hour, somewhat earlier than he would have expected.

That was how Albus Dumbledore found himself on a London street holding a large carpet bag. He looked thoughtfully at the evening sky; well after tea-time, and yet the sun was only barely inching towards the horizon. He could easily Apparate straight back to Hogsmeade this moment, and be back in his office in twenty minutes. But a stuffy castle suddenly seemed far less appealing than the fresh, warm evening breeze ruffling his light summer robes, and after all, he was in London, a city with far more stories to tell right now than the empty school castle or the drowsy magical village did. It was time he sought out some different company. As he cast a few quick charms to make himself unnoticeable to the Muggles and made the familiar turn on the spot, he felt more adventurous than he had in many, many years.

For safety's sake, he had Apparated to an alleyway a few doors down from the Leaky Cauldron on the opposite side of the road, but he needn't have worried about being seen; the street seemed to be deserted. He could have Apparated straight into Diagon Alley, of course, but that would have been so much less _fun_, and he always found it interesting to do anything at all that entailed the possibility of meeting Muggles. Feeling both pleased with himself and disappointed to find the street empty, Dumbledore removed the charms he had made to disguise himself, strode confidently out of the alley and walked straight into a man who was wearing a heavy military coat and suspenders.

"Damn. Sorry about that," said the other man, stumbling back a step or two, and looked over his shoulder towards the Leaky Cauldron very quickly before turning his attention back to Dumbledore. An American, Dumbledore noted, not that it was of any importance.

"The fault was all mine," Albus replied, mildly. He was somewhat put off by the way the man kept jerking his head to look across the road. "I ought to have looked before rushing out so eagerly – though I must say I did not expect to find anyone here. Rather unusual for people to be rushing up and down the streets at London at this time of night."

At the word 'unusual', the other man stopped whipping his head around and fixed Albus with a sceptical stare and a raised eyebrow. His gaze ranged from Albus' exceptionally long hair and beard – still red, but fading and starting to show a few grey hairs – to his billowy purple summer robes, to his high-heeled boots, and cracked a smile at the last of them. "_I'm_ unusual?"

"You _are_ wearing a heavy coat on a rather warm night."

The man burst out laughing. "Right you are. It is a bit hot for all this," he said, slipping out of the coat and handing it to Albus. "Mind taking care of it for a moment?"

Albus took the coat and watched as the man threw another quick glance in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron and then began dashing back and forth short distances along the road, occasionally stopping and taking a few steps onto the road, then quickly hopping back again. It wasn't often that Albus Dumbledore felt defeated by bizarre circumstances, but this was one occasion on which he was rather perplexed.

"I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing?" the man said at one point as he jogged past the wizard.

"It had crossed my mind, yes."

"Well, you see," he said, stopping for a moment to catch his breath, "There's something hidden on the other side of the road."

"Oh?"

"You probably think I'm mad for running up and down like this, but I'm trying to catch sight of it. I'm not talking about money hidden in a trashcan, mind you, I mean something BIG is over there. Maybe as big as a building. And it's cloaked – I can see something, or sense it, just flashes of it, out of the corners of my eyes, so I keep trying to… catch it." He looked down briefly at a chunky device strapped to his left wrist, tapped it, and then gestured to it. "I could just be imagining it, but there was an energy signature that turned up on my radar. Though it might just be an error. I haven't met anyone who could repair this hunk of junk in years. Anyway, I keep seeing things myself, but the question is _what_. Or rather how it's hidden. It's definitely not a standard cloaking device, because otherwise I wouldn't be able to get sight of it at all, but it's too strong for an ordinary perception filter. The logical answer is a Somebody Else's Problem field, but that seems highly unlikely since that technology won't be invented for…"

He trailed off in a manner that suggested that he wasn't supposed to be divulging such information _and_ that he just became aware that what he was saying sounded like complete nonsense. Even though he didn't understand half of it, though, Albus knew that it wasn't total gibberish – it was clear that this man was looking for the Leaky Cauldron, even if he didn't know what it was. What didn't make sense was the fact that this man could _partly_ sense the presence of the pub. If he were a wizard, he should be able to see it clearly, and if he were a Muggle, he shouldn't be able to see a thing.

"Are you by any chance a wizard?" Albus asked, politely, unsure of how it was best to broach this subject.

"At what?" he replied, with a smirk.

"Magic, of course. What else do wizards do?"

"Depends what you mean by 'magic'," the man said, with a sly grin, "But if you're talking about casting spells and mixing potions, I'm sure they do a hell of a lot more than just that. Magic or no, it'd be a pretty damn boring life otherwise."

"Then you're not…" Albus was unsure of where to go from here – this stranger, despite his oddities, didn't appear to be a wizard at all, and yet he could hardly just leave him here snooping around a wizarding area.

"No, I'm not a wizard," he said, stepping out onto the road again for a moment, and then turning around with arms outspread. "I'm nothing more or less than Captain Jack Harkness. And who, might I ask, are you?"

But Albus Dumbledore was speechless as he realised, belatedly, that even on a quiet night like this, Jack really should have looked before he stepped out onto the road and he definitely should have heard the car in time to get out of the way. He _did_ hear it; he turned to look as it careened around the corner and he _should_ have had time to avoid it. And yet all he did was look at for a moment, smile, and then open his mouth to laugh.

The driver didn't stop and left behind a crumpled heap of Jack on the ground. When Albus was finally jerked out of his shock he dashed onto the road to roll Jack's body over and then reached to pull out his wand. Statute of secrecy be damned - this man was a mystery he was going to get to the bottom of, and if he had to break a law or two to keep him alive then so be it... no matter how futile it seemed when Jack was so still, too still, and perhaps he was already dead. Was he even breathing? Albus was frantic, reckless and too desperate to wait, lest any hesitation prove fatal, that he didn't dare to examine the body in the slightest. He just took the briefest glance, tried to ignore the growing sense of despair and raised his wand, only to have Jack suddenly grip him tightly as he opened his mouth and gasped for another breath.

Albus could only stare.

"Sorry to scare you," Jack said, with a grin, still panting a little. "I can't seem get out of the habit of showing off every now and again."

"Showing off _what_?" Albus demanded. "Courage? Do you believe getting hit by a car is _brave_, Captain?"

Jack ignored him and stared at his wand, which was still raised as though about to cast a spell. "What were you planning to do with that?"

Albus' realisation that he was still holding his wand lead to the realisation that he was still crouched over Jack in the middle of the road and he hastily stood up, taking a few steps backwards and brushing himself down. "I was about to heal you," he said, "After an accident like that…" He trailed off as Jack likewise picked himself up the ground and brushed himself up, apparently unharmed. "… You… you ought to have serious injuries. You ought to be _dead_."

"I was dead," Jack replied, "And at the same time I can't die. What do you make of that, Mister Wizard?"

Albus looked at him thoughtfully. In situations where a Muggle discovers or comes close to discovering information about the magical world, the Ministry would normally advise performing a Memory Charm and probably relocating the aforementioned Muggle for good measure. But there was no protocol for a Muggle like this. It would be such a waste to lose this man.

Besides, Albus had never been too fond of the Ministry.

"I believe I rudely neglected to introduce myself," he said, at last. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. I'd be most honoured if you'd allow me to buy you a drink."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Jack Harkness was used to seeing strange things. It is a common experience for most people, as children, to find each new event or discovery not just fascinating but fantastic, astonishing and sometimes as though too wondrous to really believe. Eventually, as time goes by, they learn that there is a certain way that the world works, we become accustomed to it and the things that once seem wondrous become ordinary. There is little left to astonish them. But for Jack, that experience of seeing something that challenged the whole way he saw the world never stopped. He had lived much longer than his youthful appearance suggested, and he had come to expect that there would always be some strange, inexplicable occurrence out there in the world which he had yet to see.

Nevertheless, watching Albus open the door to a building that Jack could barely even sense was one of the more unsettling experiences. He took a few steps towards the building but had difficulty going any further, simply because his eyes did not want to deal with what they were seeing. He could see Albus standing there. He was solid. He could also see the doorknob, and the outline of the door, and smudges of what was going on behind it. In brief flashes he could see the building that housed it suddenly appear between the shops either side of it. But only for a moment, as it slipped away from his vision and once again Albus seemed to be holding open a door which existed in the middle of nowhere.

Jack lifted an arm to shield his eyes. The visual confusion was giving him a headache. "I can't see."

"What do you mean?" Albus asked, suddenly concerned. He had to admit, he'd never even thought of what the effects of entering a hidden building could do to a Muggle. "You're not blinded, are you?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Jack admitted, shaking his head but still keeping his eyes hidden. Cautiously, he peeked over his arm and saw clearly for a split-second before something in his vision seemed to snap back to the way it had been before and a sharp pain shot through his head. "It's more like I can't focus on it. My eyes just won't _look_ at what's in front of me. Every time I try it's as though something _forces_ me to stop seeing it. I don't even look away, it just _stops_."

"So that's how the charm works!" Albus exclaimed, sounding excited. "It's one of the great mysteries, you see – how does it feel for the other half? Oh, we devise these charms, of course, and we know that they _work_, we know that they keep the Muggles away, but we don't know _how_ they work. Because how could we? If they only work on Muggles then none of us can ever properly experience their effects, so we simply don't know how it feels! Of course, we could always test it on some Muggles and ask them how it feels, but I'm not sure whether we could consider that ethical, and besides which…"

"Albus," Jack said, his voice muffled by the sleeve covering his face, "I'm sure it's all very fascinating, and I'll give you a full report on how I'm feeling later on, but right now I'd love to just get inside so that your charms can stop doing uncomfortable things to my head."

"Why, of course," Albus said, warmly, "How rude of me to forget. I do get carried away sometimes; it's one of the hazards of being a scholar, I suppose. And I do find Muggles a rather fascinating group, even though few of my peers consider them worth learning about. Now, shall I guide you in?"

He was a little like the Doctor, Jack thought. He tried to avoid making comparisons. He realised a long time ago that he was never going to get anywhere if he kept comparing everyone to the Doctor, and just treated this time on Earth as though it were one long wait for the Doctor's return. He had to do something in the mean time, had to forget about him as best he could and be in the moment, enjoy what was going on right this minute. But all the same, he couldn't help feeling as though Albus was just a little like the energetic, enigmatic Time Lord he remembered.

And yet all thoughts of the Doctor disappeared when Albus did not grab his shoulders and push him through the door, the kind of rough treatment that Jack had become accustomed to in the last few years in the army, but rather gently took hold of his free hand and let him gingerly over the threshold. Albus Dumbledore, Jack decided, was something of a gentleman.

In a manner of speaking.

"Who's this then, Dumbledore?"

Jack opened his eyes and found to his relief that he was standing in the doorway of a completely ordinary-looking British pub, and that he could see perfectly. He also realised, belatedly, that as kind and well-meaning as Albus was, walking into a pub in the evening holding hands may not have been the smartest thing to do. The barman, who was the one who had spoken, was looking at them very suspiciously.

Albus, however, was the very image of calmness, dropping Jack's hand as though it were nothing of note and striding confidently towards the bar.

"This, Harold, is Jack Harkness. He's an expert on Muggles who's visiting from America."

"Really?" The barman still seemed a little suspicious. "An American, eh? Is 'e alright, then?"

"Perfectly fine," Albus assured him. Jack realised that he was still standing in the doorway, staring about him, and hurried to join Albus at the bar. "Professor Harkness only arrived today, you see, and I understand he's exhausted and somewhat bewildered from the journey. America is a long way away even by Portkey, Harold."

"Ah, you'll be needing a drink then," Harold said, heartily. His demeanour became much warmer once he realised that Jack's problem was one he could offer a solution for.

"Indeed," Albus agreed, before Jack could say anything. "Two serves of Firewhisky, please. I doubt the professor has ever had the opportunity to taste one of wizarding England's more unique beverages."

"No problem," Harold said, and pulled two enormous glasses from under the bar. To Jack's amazement, he began to fill them, not from a tap, but from his wand. "What?" he said, defensively, when he noticed Jack staring. "Ain't you never seen someone pouring a drink before? Or don't you folks know 'ow to do that on your side yet?"

"Oh, sure," Jack replied before Albus could jump in and answer for him. He'd had enough of that already, and he decided it was time to take a gamble. "But being in the field of Muggle studies, you see, I don't exactly spend a lot of my time with other wizards. Most of the time I'm in Muggle pubs with all their quaint machines. I'm so used to doing magic in secret that it's kind of weird when I see someone doing a… doing it openly."

He supposed, from the amusement in Albus' eyes, that he had passed that test.

"Understandable, understandable," Harold went on, not noticing the look that passed between them as he put the frothing glasses of Firewhisky down on the table. "You seem like a man who's very dedicated to his work, professor, so you'll be in good company here. Anyway, you're free to do magic however you like here at the Leaky Cauldron, so no need to feel the least bit inhibited."

"I'm glad to hear it," Jack said, warmly. He picked up his Firewhisky and followed Albus, who had politely excused himself now and indicated to Jack that he should follow as he headed over to a somewhat more private part of the pub to talk.

"I don't know where to begin," Albus admitted as Jack settled into a chair opposite him. "There is simply so much that is remarkable about you that I don't know what to ask you about first."

"Why don't we take it in turns, then? I'll go first." Jack took a sip of the Firewhisky and choked immediately. "What the heck is this?"

"It's Firewhisky, of course, as I said at the bar. Was that your first question? I would have thought there would be other burning questions on your mind – or is the Firewhisky burning enough?"

"Something like that," Jack said, eyeing it suspiciously for a moment before deciding that he liked it after all and took a longer gulp. "It might sound like a silly question, but is there actual _fire_ in this?"

"That's not as silly as you might think. I have never taken much interest in the art of brewing liquor, and indeed less interest than I should in the most basic skill of cooking food, but I'm aware that Firewhisky is a concoction unheard of in the Muggle world and thus we can fairly safely assume that there is some magic involved in the process. It may well be that some magical 'element' of fire is infused into the drink and so affects the flavour – or should I say, the experience?"

"You like to talk, don't you?"

"Indeed, I suppose I do. My brother has often complained of the fact, and I suppose he is probably correct when he suggests that the reason I became a teacher was in order to have a captive audience to inflict my wordy ponderings on." Albus took a thoughtful sip of his own drink, and Jack felt a twinge of annoyance at the other man's ability to swallow the burning draught without flinching. He'd have to work on that. "Should I ask you a question now, or do you have another one?"

"I have plenty more. Just didn't start too well." Jack looked around cautiously to make sure that nobody else was listening, but there were plenty of people scattered about, and many of them were clearly intrigued by the appearance of a newcomer – a foreign newcomer, no less. For a moment he felt frustrated that most of his questions probably weren't safe to air in such a public place. Couldn't they have gone somewhere _private_? But on reflection, maybe it was best that they both have a drink and get to know each other first. Heck, perhaps Jack was being far too trusting of this man. But mysterious as Albus was, Jack couldn't think of any real reason _not_ to trust him. Ah, well. Serious talk for later then.

"Seeing as you've told everyone that I'm a Muggle expert," he said, quietly, "Perhaps you should tell me exactly what that is. If I'm going to be playing a persona, I want to know _something_ about them."

"Eminently wise of you," Albus nodded. "Muggles are the word we use to refer to non-magical folk in England. Though I'm not sure whether it's the term that's in common use in America, is it?" he added with a wink, for the benefit of a very curious witch who walked much closer to their table than was really necessary to get to the stairs.

"Er, yes, I'm familiar with the word," Jack agreed, trying to keep up with the pace of the charade. "And, er, Muggles and magical folk are completely, er, segregated here?"

"Very nearly. Which is why, of course, we have people who specifically study them – since our worlds are entirely separate, we know very little of how Muggles live and it's difficult to converse with them directly about such things. Although sadly, there are fewer who take an interest in Muggle studies than I would like."

"I can see that," Jack said. It was a little hard to tell from the insides of the pub, but he had a feeling that this hidden community he had fallen into was several decades behind the times when it came to technology. Naturally for him most human technology to be found in 1946 was laughably primitive, but this place was almost eighteenth century.

Not to mention the fact that it was lit entirely with candles. "You don't bother much with technology, do you?"

"Well, that would of course depend on how you choose to define technology," Dumbledore said, with a smile. "We do, of course, like most societies, continually work towards improvements, innovations and new inventions. But if by technology you mean the creation of new objects, machines and the like, then no, we place little stock in that. Our innovations are largely in the creation of new and more effective spells."

"I think that may be a fatal oversight on your part," Jack said, warming to his role as the Muggle expert now. "The acceleration of technical innovation by Muggles is very impressive, and the effect of new technology on civilisations is going to be really powerful. Besides, I'm sure you must make some use of Muggle inventions yourselves. I mean, you must use cars or trains or something to get around. You can't honestly say that you still use flying broomsticks, can you?" He said the last part in a whisper for fear of making a complete fool of himself.

"As it happens, brooms are hugely popular here." Albus corrected him and Jack stared in disbelief, then laughed.

"I don't believe it. So all those stories really are true."

"We do use cars and trains, though," he went on. "But you see, why work on creating new machines when we can so easily adapt what Muggles have created before us?"

Jack thought about that for a moment. "I suppose what you're doing is technological innovation, really. What is technology if not finding new ways of doing things? It's just…" he looked upwards and noticed, for the first time, the candles were all floating in mid-air, and thought back again to the way they had poured the drinks, also from nowhere. "I'm just astounded that this is an entire branch of human technology that I've never heard about."

"We do go to some lengths to keep ourselves hidden," Albus said, dryly.

"Even so," Jack said, with a grin, "You don't know how I've travelled and the things I've seen – or how long I've been doing it."

"Not as long as I have, I'm sure," Albus said. He looked at the hand that was gripping his glass. Still strong, but growing bony, and his skin seemed somehow thinner than it used to be. "I'm older than I look to you."

Jack laughed. "So am I, Albus. You have no idea."

Albus raised an eyebrow at him which Jack steadily returned, and there was silence for a moment as Albus realised the implications of what he had seen on the street outside. It was only logical that a man who didn't die would live for a long time. Another one of those things that neither of them wanted to discuss in the open. After a while, Jack steered them quietly back onto the topic of magic.

"You know, most of this isn't so shocking. The hidden building, the floating things, it's all within the realm of science. But making that drink appear from nowhere, that was something else. How exactly does all this stuff work?"

"As I have said before," Dumbledore, said, even more quietly, aware that the conversation was steering in a risky direction, "I am a wizard, all the inhabitants of this building are witches and wizards, and it is magic."

"Are you mocking me?" Jack asked him.

"My dear professor," Albus said, more loudly, "Why on earth would you think that?"

"It was once said that technology to advanced for one to understand may as well be magic. I know better. I've seen all kinds of things, and I know what science can do. I'm not going to resort to mysticism just because I don't get it."

"I don't doubt your intelligence or beliefs," Albus replied, almost apologetically, and warily as some heads started turning with that instinct that pub-going wizards all seemed to have for gossip. "But what I tell you is true. This is not a feat of science. Everything you have seen today is magic. After all," he said, with a twinkle in his eye, "What you say about incomprehensibly advanced technology is true – but is science still science even if the 'scientist' believes he is performing magic?"

Jack didn't have a response to that. He struggled with the question for a few moments but couldn't seem to articulate what he was thinking. "I've seen a lot of things," he said, at last, "Many more amazing things than anything you've shown me. But I've never met someone who did this stuff and really believed it was magic. For goodness' sake, I've travelled through time, but I know that was no magic, it was an application of real scientific principles. There must be something behind what you call magic, even if you don't know it."

Albus seemed keen to steer away from the question of magic, for security reasons perhaps. "We are capable of travelling through time as well, you realise."

"Oh?" Jack asked, intrigued. "How far have you been able to travel?"

"A matter of hours, in fact, although I'm sure if one were to perform enough revolutions of the Time Turner one could travel days at a time. It's limits have yet to be found…" He trailed off as he noticed Jack looking smug.

"Hours, Albus? That's not very efficient. I've travelled for years at a time! And much quicker than you manage with this Time Turner, I'm sure. Does it only move at one-hour intervals or something?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact it does."

"Not very accurate either, then."

"So you've been…" Albus wasn't sure exactly how to phrase his next question.

"I was born in the thirty-first century," Jack said, in a whisper, "And I've been through the second World War twice. Does that answer your question?"

"Is that why you don't…"

Suddenly Albus stopped. "Professor Harkness, it seems to me that we have more to talk about that is appropriate to such a public setting. Should we perhaps move somewhere more private?"

Professor Harkness liked where this was going. "Sure thing."

Albus stood up abruptly and walked towards the bar. Jack drained his Firewhisky hurriedly, then grimaced and hurried after him.

"My dear Harold," Albus said to the barman, "The professor and I have some matters to discuss which would be better suited to a less public setting. Would you happen to have any rooms free tonight?"

Harold looked from one of them to the other suspiciously for a few moments, clearly curious about what they could possibly have to say about Muggles that needed to be said in private. These wizards, Jack was starting to think, seemed to be terrible gossips. "Whatever you say, Dumbledore. Ain't none of my business what you an' your professor friends 'ave to say. Just keep the place tidy, eh?"

"Naturally, Harold," Albus said, diplomatically, "Intellectual discussion may not always be as tidy as it claims, but I doubt it should give us cause to vandalise your property." He paused for a moment. "Incidentally, could you possibly send us a flask of mead?"

Harold merely grunted in response to that and handed him a key, as well as a bottle. "There ought to be glasses in the room. We'll settle the bill in the morning," he said, waving Albus' money away. "Bar's about to shut anyway. Hope you enjoy your stay, Professor Harkness," he added, in a last-ditch attempt at hospitality.

Albus had already started towards the stairs and Jack turned to follow him, but looked back at Harold as he went. "Oh, I'm sure I will, Harold. In fact, I love it already. And please, just call me Jack."


	3. Chapter 3

"He gave us a double?"

Albus could understand Jack's surprise. It wasn't what Harold would normally assign to two single men, but then it was generally understood, if not spoken, that Albus was not an ordinary single man. Neither, he suspected, was Jack, although this wasn't really any concern of his. Albus had no interest in romance so soon after locking Gellert up, and even if he were, Jack was clearly too young for him, regardless of what he might say. Nonetheless, Harold's misunderstood assumption about his intentions was a little amusing.

However, he did not convey this amusement to Jack, who was leaning on the closed door, holding the bottle of mead that Albus had passed to him when he lost the room key in one of his many pockets. "It's just the time of year, Jack. They tend to do more business during the summer and I doubt there were many other rooms left. Besides, I asked for a room so that we could talk in private, not so that we had somewhere to sleep." Before Jack could ask any more questions he dumped his carpet bag on the bed and turned to look for some glasses, putting the conversation about the room to an end.

The room was small and cramped; there items it contained were limited to one bed, two armchairs, a tiny table beside them and a cupboard under a low bench from which Albus recovered some wine glasses. But it would do. Albus had wanted somewhere more private, and he doubted a third person would be able to fit in this room.

"Do all the folks around here call you 'Dumbledore'?" Jack asked, seating himself in an armchair and trying, with no success, to figure out how to open the bottle. "Isn't that a bit formal?"

"I think it comes with being a schoolteacher," Albus sat down opposite him in the other chair, placed the glasses on the table beside them and unstoppered the bottle with a neat flick of his wand. "Harold's not much younger than me, but I taught his children, and most of the younger adults around here."

"Do you mind that I call you Albus, then? Or should it be 'Dumbledore', or 'Professor'? Now there's something I've never been called before. And I've been called a lot of things. Hey, that's _nice_," he added, appreciatively, as he sampled the mead. "Much nicer than that awful brew we had before. More refined."

"Wizards cannot claim credit for the invention of mead, I'm afraid," said Albus, sampling his own. "I believe it's one of the oldest drinks known to man, or at least one of the oldest known to Britain. I'd like to think that we've just about perfected the art, though."

"It just goes to show that magic isn't everything, I suppose," Jack said, philosophically. "You haven't answered my question."

"There aren't many people that call me 'Albus' any more. I've become more used to Dumbledore. My old friend Elphias still uses my first name, as does my brother on the rare occasions that we speak, but most of the time I'm just 'Dumbledore'. Not all that many people in our society refer to each other by first names, you know. It's very symbolic. Of closeness, you see."

"Or stuffiness, perhaps," Jack snorted. "I notice you don't bother calling me 'Harkness' now that we're not in front of anyone else."

There was silence for a few moments as Albus mulled over the significance of that little lapse of his in calling the man by name. It was an odd thing to do. But then, he had learned that it didn't do one much good to dwell too much on the significance of things.

"You asked Harold to call you 'Jack', and you seem to prefer it – or perhaps I should call you Captain? At any rate, you are clearly a most unusual man, and if you prefer it then you may as well call me Albus." He peered at Jack over the half-moon glasses he had only recently taken to wearing. "Indeed, you seem like the sort of man who cannot be deterred from calling me whatever you want."

"Damn right, Alby. Okay, okay, _Albus_," Jack acquiesced when Albus fixed him with a glare. "And _please_ call me Jack. Much as I like having a title, it doesn't mean all that much any more."

Albus wondered whether to question him about that; he was fairly taken with Muggles and knew a decent amount about their much larger and more formal military forces. It was puzzling that Jack should think his title meaningless. But he put that to the back of his mind as it may well be inappropriate to ask about the man's military connections when the Great War was still such a fresh memory for all of them.

"So, Jack," Albus began, swirling the remainder of mead in his glass before drinking it. That first glass had gone fast. "I may as well get straight to the point. It would appear, to the uneducated observer such as myself, that you can find yourself in a situation – such as an automobile accident – which would leave most men dead, and yet emerge unscathed. Why is that?"

Jack also drained his glass and refilled Albus' before his own. "It's pretty simple. I can't die."

"What do you mean, you can't die? Is it somehow impossible to damage your body?"

"Well, yeah, it is. I can be injured just as badly as the next man. I guess I didn't phrase that all that well. Maybe what I should say is, I can't stay dead. I die, sure. I've 'died' a fair few times now. But I always come back."

There were so many questions in Albus' head at that moment. He had suspected that this was the case but had buried the idea; it seemed ludicrous. After all, he and Gellert Grindlewald had searched the whole known world for ways to conquer death, but when even magic proved ultimately futile he had given up the thought that it would ever be possible for _anyone_. And yet he had seen this man survive an accident that should have killed him, and that same man was now saying that he couldn't die. It was both exhilarating and terrifying to see the old dream before him again.

Yet the only questions that he could force from his lips were the most childish ones, the things that he and Gellert had never asked way back when. What does it feel like? Does it hurt?

"Yeah, it hurts," he said, in an offhand manner, "But you get used to it." And then he laughed at the absurdity of the statement, and Albus did, too. "Not that there's been anyone else who ever had the chance to get used to dying. But the pain doesn't matter that much. The first time I died was the same as every other time. There's always pain – I hear you can die painlessly, but I've never done it. After all, if you're going to live forever, you may as well live dangerously. So there's pain, but it doesn't matter that much. You're more preoccupied with the fact that you're _dying_. You always know, somehow. You know when you're done for. I've been injured a hell of a lot of times, and let me tell you, the pain of an injury is no indication of how serious it is. Some of the most trivial injuries hurt the most. But when it's fatal, well, you just know somehow."

He paused to take a sip of mead, and observed that it really was remarkably good. He said nothing more for a few moments, just drinking, and while Albus knew that he could interrupt here, he sensed that Jack still had more to say.

"And then it's like falling asleep," he continued, at last. "Just like falling asleep. Almost. And just before I'm out for good and my mind goes completely blank, I'm alive again, and everything suddenly starts working."

"Amazing," Albus murmured.

"Is it really? With all the other amazing things you can do, I'd have thought immortality was pretty run-of-the-mill."

"On the contrary," Albus said, "Death is the last great mystery which nobody can conquer. It's well beyond the realms of magic, or at least of most people's magical ability. Sort of. I'm not explaining this very well, am I?"

"Is that because you don't understand it, or because you don't want to?" Jack asked before lifting a glass to his lips and closing his eyes as he sipped it.

Albus laughed at that. "Oh, I understand. I dare say I understand the limits of magic and death better than any other wizard. It's at the very core of our myths and our folklore, all of which has a truth at the heart of it which many spend their lives searching for. And then there's alchemy – it's not just a hobby for batty ancients, you know," he added, noting Jack's startled expression at the mention of the word. "An unusual and very difficult branch of magic which very few have made any achievements at, but very real and very powerful."

He didn't mention the attempts he had made for many years to replicate the success of Nicholas Flamel at creating the elixir of life. It was a project he had begun shortly after Ariana's death – after the spectacular separation from Gellert – and which had gone from a hobby to an obsession as Gellert Grindlewald grew into the dark wizard who was intent on murder and destruction and Albus desperately sought another way. He had abandoned the project when he resigned himself to the fact that Grindlewald had to be faced; it was hopeless, he had made virtually no progress and even if he did, he had been fooling himself all along in his belief that he could solve the problem with alchemy. Perhaps, in the unlikely event that he succeeded in creating the elixir, he could save people from death. But there was no way he could create it in large enough amounts to save everyone who fell in the dark wizard's path, and even if he could the most painful truth in the matter still had to be faced – no alchemy, no kind of magic, could change the fact that no matter how much he loved him, Gellert would still be a homicidal brute.

"Why?" Albus asked, before Jack could question him any further about magic and death. For most wizards it was little more than theory, or even fairytale, but for Albus it was the tragedy at the centre of his life and he was not going to discuss it with a stranger he had only just met, no matter how mysterious and fascinating he was. "Or perhaps the more appropriate word is 'how'. How is it that you came to be in this position of constantly evading death?"

"Oh, I don't evade death," was Jack's retort. "If you want to get all metaphorical about it then I just kind of cross his path every now and again. Sometimes I use death. Sometimes death is just like a door I have to break down to get to where I'm going next. Not in the usual sense, like when people talk about going to the next world or whatever, but there are some places you can't get to, and some things you can't do, without dying in the process. I go in, I die, and then I come out the other side again."

There was a question that was hiding at the back of Albus' mind, nagging to be asked, through all of this. He was aware that pain, in some cases, could be satisfying, pleasurable in a way. Pain could be addictive. If one could die again and again, could that possibly perform the same function? Did Jack _like_ dying? Did he ever throw himself at Death? _Did he want to die_, to die and stay dead instead of this constant false rebirth?

But as much as Albus longed to ask those questions, he held back. This was not the time, and it was a distraction. He was getting off track. Jack may not evade death, but he was evading Albus' questions.

"But _why_? How? What made you 'immortal', if that's the right word?"

Jack was silent for a long moment, thinking. His face betrayed nothing of his thoughts. Albus began to think that he had forgotten the question, that his mind was it a completely different place and was wondering whether to interrupt him when Jack suddenly spoke up.

"Why the heck is my glass empty again? We sure are getting through this bottle fast."

He topped up Albus' glass and refilled his own, and Albus began to wonder whether the mead had been a bad idea. Should he be dulling his senses right now, on the verge of such a crucial discovery? Or was it perhaps better that he did forget it? He was sensing, already, the dangers of getting involved in more dissertations about death and its mysteries, when his life had already been ripped apart by it over the years. It was a fascination he should have learned to stay away from. But with every sip of mead, he knew, Jack would grow a little more amicable to talk, and despite his hesitations he could not bring himself to speak up and stop him.

"The first time I died, I stayed dead," Jack began. "It was… oh, this is so hard to explain. It was a long, long way in the future, something you probably can't imagine. We were fighting a truly hopeless battle against a completely terrifying enemy. My friends were… they were in the command centre, I suppose you could say, and I was on the front line. Worlds apart."

He paused, briefly, and Albus wondered who exactly those friends were for a moment, and why they were so far away from him. Why they had been separated like that. Or perhaps he was remembering the goodbyes.

"It was the last time I saw either of them, not that that matters," he said, too casually. "But the main thing is that I died. There wasn't a mark on me, which I think helped. It's hard to explain, but the Daleks – that's who we were fighting – they kill with this weapon, it's like a ray, like…"

"I understand completely." For a brief, insane moment, Albus was tempted to demonstrate what a curse looked like, but he banished the notion in horror. "The killing curse which wizards have at their disposal is much the same, I think."

"Daleks aren't magic," Jack said, almost automatically, and then laughed. "And Heaven help us if they are. There's a scary thought. Anyway, they killed me. I was a normal human being then, and I died, and I didn't come back. But Rose…" He stopped again, struggling with the explanation. "She… oh, I can't make you understand this, I just have to say it. She opened the heart of the TARDIS, and it looks like a machine but it's _alive_, and it's ancient and it's unbelievably powerful. And she took it inside her and she wanted to make things right but she didn't know _how_, and she wanted to bring me back but she did it all wrong. She fixed me too well. She fixed me forever."

He paused then and took a long drink. Albus was excited, but contained himself, told himself to let Jack talk, let him talk as long as he wanted and let him finish the story, if there was any more to say.

"Anyway, after that I was stuck on this damn satellite, and Rose and the Doctor – that's the other friend that we travelled with – they'd gone and nicked off and bloody well left me there. I used this thing," he pointed to his watch-like time-travel device, "To get me back to Earth, but I got all mixed up and ended up in the wrong time, and then the damn thing broke on me. So now I'm just hanging around waiting for the twenty-first century so I can chase down the Doctor again."

He sighed, suddenly, and drained the rest of his glass. He was, Albus acknowledged, drinking rather recklessly.

"I don't know whether I'll ever be any different, or if I'm stuck like this, but I know that if it can be fixed, the only person who can do it is the Doctor. So I guess until then I just have to stay stuck down here and continue to not die." He cracked a wry grin. "I just hope I don't start ageing as well. Imagine what a human would look like if he lived to be a thousand years old…"

So many questions. Far too many. What a treasure this man was, what a miracle! Albus had longed to be the master of death and here, in a sense was that master, right before his eyes. How utterly extraordinary. How he longed to find out more about him, to find out _everything_, to have each and every answer. And how strong the sense of danger, that this was something he should leave alone, that every time he went down this path of investigation it only ever lead to disaster. And in the midst of this blur of conflicts, blurred further by the mead that Jack kept his glass constantly full of, he finally let out one little comment.

"Fascinating."

"What do you want from me?" Jack asked, sharply. He placed the glass on a table and in an instant he was out of his chair, leaning threateningly over Albus. "You're asking too many questions. You're wondering whether this is magic, aren't you? You think that you can _use_ me? Well don't ask me how it works, and don't think you can find out by locking me up and… and stripping me down and pulling me apart. Is that what you were thinking? Because if it was, you can forget it right now."

"Sit down, Jack," Albus said, in the best schoolteacher voice he could muster. To his relief, Jack complied. That was far too close for comfort, because Jack was completely right. After all the time he and Gellert had spent trying to cheat death, remembering how passionately he had wanted to and finding, finally, what looked like an answer, the thought had crossed his mind. He had wanted to know how this worked from the moment he had seen Jack sit up after he was hit by that car.

When Jack was pinning him to his chair, though, when Jack's face was inches from his own, Albus had _wanted_ something quite different. In that brief moment, death was the furthest thing from his mind. Death was the past and the future, but right then Albus had been hopelessly rooted to the present.

"According to wizarding law," Albus said, doing his best to keep his voice firm, "My only concern ought to be that you, despite anything else which is peculiar about you, are a Muggle, and you have become aware of the existence of magic. The only thing I'm legally permitted to do to you is to erase your memory. There certainly won't be any locking you up and… er… pulling you apart."

Jack let out a derisive 'heh' at that. "Normally what I'd do to someone who found out about me is to erase their memories, too."

"I don't see much point in performing a memory charm on you," Albus continued. "You have no way to return to this world and there is so much about you that is unusual that you must be aware that speaking of things like this would just lead people to think that you're mad. But what about you, Jack? Do you want to make me forget?"

"Am I worth remembering?" he countered.

The air between them was thick with implications and unspoken thoughts. Jack poured the remainder of the mead into Albus' glass.

"My, we've gone through that quickly, haven't we?" he remarked.

"What were you people doing during the war?" Jack asked suddenly, seriously.

"Why do you ask?"

"Aside from the fact that London was right in the thick of it? We're in a magical pub in the middle of London. There were probably bombs dropping all around here at one time or another. I mean, come _on,_ you can't have just ignored it like you seem to ignore everything else the world does without you."

"I can't speak for everyone in the wizarding world, but I can tell you that _I_ was rather preoccupied with my own matters. Our world is hardly without its problems and we do have a fairly small population of trained people to deal with them!" Albus didn't like Jack's tone. Somewhere along they line he had gone from a friendly conversationalist to being suddenly antagonistic.

"Oh, I see," Jack said, with a hint of bitterness in his voice, "So you're so removed from the 'Muggles' that nothing that goes wrong out here even matters to you? You don't bother to fight? You can just sit there and watch while everything goes wrong in front of you, can you?"

The man was upset, Albus could see, and he wasn't making sense. "I told you, we had other things to take care of. Magic is extremely powerful and not everyone uses it for good. During that time there was a wizard who was extremely powerful and…" He faltered. He had almost said 'evil'. But he couldn't say that of Gellert. He just couldn't. "And he liked power. He liked exerting power. Particularly over other people. _Including Muggles_."

"Oh, sure. One wizard. Did he have armies running before him? Did he have whole nations under his control, terrified to squeak without his permission?"

If he'd known Jack was going to be like this he never would have bought the accursed mead. And damn it, he _didn't want to talk about Gellert_.

"I don't see why that's any concern of yours," he replied, coldly. "Grindlewald was a terror. He was a genius whom few wizards could have confronted and lived, and he created pain and misery as though it were an art form. I _had_ to concentrate on stopping him!"

"Damn it, Albus, if you're so powerful, if _magic_ is so powerful, then why didn't you and your buddies step in and do _anything_ about all those people who died so _senselessly_ in the bloody war? How can you pretend you're not a part of…"

"Stop it!" Albus commanded him, and this time Jack did stop at the teacherly command. His eyes were steely but his hands trembled on the arm rests, and he wondered what Jack made of that. "You have _no idea_ what I had to do, or what I went through, and you are in no position to accuse me."

"Then tell me," said Jack, quietly fierce. "Tell me what you did then, Albus. Because if you're going to be asking me questions and tearing me apart to satisfy your damn obsession with death…"

"I told you, that's not going to happen."

"Whatever. If you've gone to all the trouble of buying me drinks and getting a room, if it's so damn important to you to find out what makes me the way I am, then I'm going to get some answers first. And damn it, Albus, I have to know how a bunch of people with so much power can be so self-absorbed that they can watch a war go on, a war that killed thousands of people all over the world, and do _nothing_. And how you can continue to sit by and do nothing as all kinds of other things happen, as the peace talks ruin the Middle East and the nuclear threat rises and Africa starves and…"

"Are you accusing me of things that haven't happened yet?" Albus asked, quietly. "You're right, you're absolutely right, inaction is tantamount to murder sometimes." He swallowed. "But isn't it dangerous to tell me about things that haven't happened? Especially like this? Because, er, I could do something wrong, couldn't I? Ruin history? We've only developed time travel recently but we know that the dangers are dreadful, it's very heavily restricted…"

"Just tell me why," Jack was immovable.

But he couldn't, he couldn't tell anyone that, he always knew that he'd never be able to tell anyone all about that. That was the whole point, wasn't it? That was why he had come here, to take his mind off it all, because it was torture to have Gellert on his mind all the time and _never be able to tell anyone_. The only thing to do was forget, wasn't it? Maybe Elphias was right. Elphias _was_ right. He _should_ forget, he should forget it all, forget the guilt instead of carrying it around with nobody to share it with, forget the shame and the lies, forget all about all those times that he and Gellert had spent in Godric's Hollow, in the study and in the graveyard and in the river and…

And forget the happiest memories he had, no matter how tainted they were? Those memories of his summer with Gellert had kept him alive in those horrible early years without Ariana, and had kept him alive in the months after Gellert had been arrested. To know that despite everything else he had done he had been happy once, even if it soon grew too twisted and horrible for words, if that happiness had cost him, in a way, the rest of his life… he couldn't forget that. And there was no way he could do away with the proof, in his memories, that while Gellert Grindlewald was sadistic and cruel, he was not a monster. He knew how to love.

Albus looked across at Jack. He wanted so much to trust this man. He knew that he couldn't trust him. A complete stranger, someone completely incomprehensible in a way, who _physically_ made no sense, who seemed temperamental and unpredictable and sometimes dangerous. How could he possibly trust this man with his worst secrets?

Oh, sod it, he could erase his memory later if he had to.

"I am probably regarded, I think, as the most powerful wizard in England," he began, quietly. "It was known all along, I think, that I could defeat Grindlewald. He was a sick man, really. Perverted is perhaps a better word. He seemed so full of light at times, carefree and playful and childish…" he stopped himself. That was getting off track. "But he was twisted. He killed people and he tortured them, and not just wizards but Muggles, too. Sometimes it seemed as though there were a plan behind it all. Most of the time it didn't. He did have plans, he wanted to rule the world with an iron fist, because he thought that everyone else were idiots and they couldn't see how to do things right, and that he did."

"Grindlewald is a wizard who thinks he can make the world right by killing people horribly?" Jack's scepticism was actually tinged with amusement. How could someone that outraged not take this seriously? "Sounds more like a loony to me."

"Maybe he was. I was never really sure." Albus paused for a moment. "To not take action is wrong. To stand by and watch something evil take place, and make no move to stop it, is almost as bad as doing it yourself. It's wrong, so wrong. And I knew for a long time that I could stop Grindlewald. I always knew that. But I didn't. I held out as long as I could, busying myself with my work and with the school. I convinced myself, I think, that by teaching students to defend themselves and researching new techniques, I could somehow stop Grindlewald without actually having to face him."

"But that didn't work."

"No." There was something in the way Jack was staring at him that made Albus feel slightly uneasy, but he couldn't stop now. He was going to take this story to the end. "It didn't work. There came a point where I couldn't ignore it any longer, I had to do something. The body count was rising and I had to face up to the fact that I was responsible for it. I may as well have killed those people myself."

"That's a bit harsh," Jack murmured, but Albus ignored him. He stared at his hands and pressed on. The audience was irrelevant now. He just had to finish the story.

"So eventually I went out to meet him, a few months ago. And we fought, and I won. I knew I would. It didn't feel like much of a victory. But they all fussed over me back here and said how wonderful I was, and that's how I end up wandering around London in the middle of the night, somehow, because the entire wizarding world thinks that I'm a great hero and all I know is everything I've done wrong."

"But why?" Jack asked, again.

"Is that the only thing you can say?" Albus' tone was harsh, and he knew it. "We were… we had been… we were close. A long time ago. I didn't want to face him again. When my sister died it was because we were fighting… I always thought it was my fault… if I hadn't…" He had to stop himself and close his eyes for a moment to get his thoughts in order.

"Albus, you're not making sense."

"I don't know which one of us was responsible for her death," he said. "That was why I was scared. I didn't want to face him because I didn't want to know. Not that he knew either, it was stupid, it was just stupid, but I hoped it wasn't me, but even if it wasn't my spell I was still responsible, and I just don't want to believe that it was Gellert's fault either…"

"_Albus_." Jack was out of the chair, crouched in front of him, gripping his shoulders now. "You're still not making sense."

_Oh, come on, Albus. You've told him everything else. Sort of._

"I loved him," he said, dully, not daring to look at Jack. "I loved him more than anything. He was most fascinating, most astounding person I've ever met. And it sounds so childish, but in his way he was the only person who ever really understood me or listened to me, and took me as I was. My mother and sister are dead. My father died in prison. My brother hates me. My best friend doesn't want to listen to anything that might spoil his perfect image of me. Gellert was the person I loved the most, and he was the last hope I had, and I deliberately flushed him out and beat him down and locked him up again. And so the story is complete, and I have no-one."

"Well," Jack said, dryly, "In that case, I can see why you didn't have time to stop the Second World War."

And then Jack kissed him.

Despite all the hints and warning signs that now seemed abundantly clear, Albus hadn't expected that.

"What exactly are you doing?" Albus asked, warily, when Jack finally pulled away.

"What's wrong? I got the impression it was kind of what you wanted," Jack said, with a cocky grin. He was still leaning over Albus, with his hands on the armrests not quite touching Albus' arms.

"I'm not complaining," he said, calmly, "But don't you think I'm a little old for you? My hair may still be red, but I am actually sixty-five, you know."

"Big deal," Jack's grin widened. "I'm over a hundred years old. Do you think I'm too old for _you_, Albus?"

"You're _what_?" Albus gaped. "How can you be so old? You don't look a day older than thirty!"

"I don't know. I think immortality has slowed my ageing just a little. Didn't I mention? When I zapped myself back to Earth, I actually ended up in the late nineteenth century. Around the time you were born, most likely."

Albus just blinked at him, which Jack took to be a good sign, so he kissed him again, and this time slipped an arm around his body for good measure.

"You know, this would probably be a lot easier if we moved to the bed," he told him.

"I don't think this is such a good idea, Jack."

"Why not?" Jack sat down on the edge of the bed – half a stride away – and starting to unlace his boots. "It might do you some good, Professor."

"It wouldn't be right," Albus argued. "I've only just met you. And even if you are older than I am, you look young, and you're free. You don't want to get caught up with me. I'm deceptive and secretive and I'm still in love with a murderer who I had to put in jail. Don't waste your time on someone like me."

"Pleasure is never a waste of time." There was a challenge in his eye. Or perhaps it was just that he had started unbuttoning his shirt.

Albus stood up and stretched an arm out as though to… he didn't really know. To tell him to stop. But he couldn't. Albus didn't think he was the sort of person who would do this sort of thing. Get involved with strangers. Especially not under the pretence of a professional interview. And yet this wasn't an ordinary stranger. This was the man who couldn't die, the man who moved through time, and the man who had coaxed him into telling those secrets which he thought he would never be able to tell anyone. Jack had listened, and he had not judged.

"Look, I know I'm not your Grindlewald," said Jack. "I know we've only just met. But I'm not a total stranger. You're a good man, despite what you think, and I like you. And hey, to you it might seem kind of… hasty… to get into bed with a man you just met."

He stood up placed an arm around Albus' waist, more forcefully this time, and then wriggled the other hand deftly under his robes. Clearly even a garment that had no discernable openings and which he had never seen before was no obstacle to Captain Jack Harkness.

"But damn, Albus, you need to cheer up. I'm not Gellert, and you don't love me. But I can make you happy, even if it's only for a while, and you need some happiness in your life other than the memories of a man who turned out to be a nutcase. I promise I won't turn into a homicidal maniac afterwards, either. So let's at least just have some fun tonight, and then even if you never want to see me again, even if you do decide that you have to erase my memories, at least _you'll_ have one good one."

For a long moment, Albus stared into his eyes. From his pocket he drew the Elder Wand, the accursed memento of his duel with Gellert Grindlewald, the final betrayal of the people he loved, and with a brief flick, he extinguished all the light in the room. Then he dropped the wand unceremoniously on the seat of the armchair. He wasn't going to need it for a while.

"You did _not_ shag Albus Dumbledore," Ianto said, with a look of dismay.

"I did so." Jack was sitting on Ianto's desk and had refused to move despite complaints that he was sitting on some important documents that Ianto needed for some very important work.

"Did not."

"Did so."

"He's not even _real_."

"Oh, come on, you love those books! I thought it was only fair to share my own personal experiences. But you clearly don't appreciate the value of such an exclusive tale from the world of Harry Potter."

"Because it's _rubbish_. And I don't like them that much." Ianto tried to surreptitiously shove a few papers over the copy of _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ that was sitting on his desk, and Jack pretended not to notice.

"Yes you do. You read them all the time."

"I read a lot of things. And besides, I'm very busy. You should leave me alone to do my work."

"Tosh isn't ashamed of liking Harry Potter."

"Tosh is a girl."

Jack just snorted at that and slid off the edge of the desk. "Maybe I should go and tell her, then. I'm sure _she'd_ appreciate hearing a Harry Potter story that nobody else has ever heard before."

"I don't even know why you'd _want_ to," Ianto muttered a moment later.

Jack paused halfway through the doorway.

"I mean, even if he _were_ real – which he's _not_ – he's so… _old_."

"Not as old as me."

"That's different."

"You're just jealous."

"Am not."

"Well you should be, it was a damn good night."

"Oh, sod off. Besides, he wouldn't sleep with you, and he wasn't in love with Grindlewald. You made it all up. He's straight. Or asexual or something."

"Have you read _Deathly Hallows_, or are you just blind?"

"Go away! I'm busy!"

Jack shrugged and wandered reluctantly back to his own work. If Ianto didn't want to hear the rest of the story, that was his problem.


End file.
